[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
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➳ ARIELLE'S POV
"Zayn?" I call out for him, receiving no response. As I patter along the hallway flooring, I inexplicably feel a little bit worried. Where is he? I find his bedroom undisturbed, making sure to check the adjoined bathroom, but it's empty as well. The art room is empty and I'm disappointed that he isn't there either.
I head to the only other place he could be—the garage. As I step closer to the stairs going down to the garage, I hear noises. My ears make out the sounds of heavy breathing and thumping. What is going on? My mind races with thoughts of what he could be doing, and for some reason a little bit of terror rises within me.
I know the reason for that. It's because I don't know what he does. What if he screwed up when he was in a race, and ended up flipping his car? I know he knows what he's doing, but everything else is so unpredictable—the weather, the other cars, pedestrians, everything. He can't control the uncontrollable.
Or what if he got caught up with the wrong type of crowd? Would they hurt him? Would they kill him? Terror causes my heart to start beating uncontrollably, and I run down the stairs as fast as my feet will carry me.
When I open the door to the garage, I find Zayn and relief washes over me. So intense, in fact, that I audibly exhale, pressing a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart.
Zayn bounces lightly on his feet a few times before his right arm swings forward and slams into a heavy bag that hangs from the ceiling. He jumps on his feet, repeating the action with his left arm. I gawk at him. I've never seen him box before, I didn't even know he owned any of the gear he's using.
His shirtless body glistens sinfully with sweat and I nearly moan at the sight. He's completely concentrated on throwing punch after punch at the bag and I can't pull my eyes away from the sight of his muscles flexing under the skin on his back and shoulders as he does so.
I stand there for at least two or three minutes, just watching him. There's something so arousing about knowing that he's this strong, and quick on his feet. It's so masculine, and it's causing my hormones to rage. He starts punching a little quicker then, and I can hear the beat thumping through his headphones which matches the rate at which he's hitting the bag.
He moves around the bag a little so that I'm able to see his face and I observe his chest as it rises and falls quickly—his breath coming out in short, ragged spurts. I stand there admiring his sculpted physique until he starts punching faster than ever and I press my thighs together to relieve the pang of lust that courses through me at the sight. His face is contorted in anger, the creases of frustration are painfully evident on his tired face. What's he so worked up about?
He shifts places again and that's when he notices me standing there. He punches the bag a few more times and then stops, pulling the headphones off his head to saunter over to me, desperately trying to catch his breath. As he approaches, I admire the sight of his naked calves, which are always covered with denim. The shorts he's wearing are loose and hanging so tantalizingly low that I find myself distracted.
